Gat Heat (27 page)

“Nine of them left. The tenth one got away.”

“The tenth one got away,” he echoed, his voice flat. “Why did you let that happen?”

“Sam, I know you're probably a bit … uneasy about this. But have no fears. All these guys are, ah, pacified. I think four of them may have fractured skulls, or at least concussions; but they'll be all right. In time.”

“Uh-huh.” I didn't like his tone. I didn't like it at all.

“Sam, old friend,” I said, forcing exuberance into my voice, “I knew you'd be tickled to death. It's really swell, just
great
how it's worked out. Tooth can tell you about him and Gippo Crane, which wraps up the Porter homicide. Bingo Kestel has a couple little rockets in him, but he's going to live; I'm reasonably certain of that. And he can tell you about hitting the Sporks with that blackmail picture of Sybil, among other things. Little Phil was with Stub Corey in the car last night when he went out to put the bite on Halstead, which will be corroboration for some of that. And Jimmy Violet can tell you about all of it—including getting the album from Kermit Vanda and Dilly—since he was on top of all of it. In fact, Jimmy's just been telling me any number of things. He thought I was going to shoot him between the eyes. Of course, I wouldn't have, but—”

“You mean he's confessed. After you arrested this small community of citizens, naturally you advised Violet of his right to remain silent while you shot him between the eyes, and his right to counsel, and determined that he was voluntarily answering your questions as you shot his eyes out—”

“Don't be ridiculous, Sam.” I laughed lightly. “I know the Supreme Court decisions as well as you do. I understand the care with which hoodlums—innocent citizens must be handled. But it's all right. I haven't even put them under arrest yet. Didn't even make a private person's arrest, see? But there's clear evidence of felony here—”

“Uh-huh.”

“—and therefore the official police representatives can legally place these hoods under arrest and advise them of all sorts of things. I merely stand in the wings, so to speak, a private citizen concerned by the ghastly upsurge in the crime rate, since the Supreme Court decisions such as the Mallory decision way back in nineteen fifty-seven …”

Silence. I didn't like that silence.

“And
Mapp versus Ohio.… Preston versus U.S
.…”

I could hear him breathing. Breathing heavily, it sounded like. Getting a little faster.

I went on, slowing a bit, “
Gideon versus Wainwright?
And we can't forget the Escobedo case, can we?”

He'd stopped breathing. That was bad.

“And then there's that little beauty,
Miranda versus Arizona …
Sam? Sam, I'm merely showing you I had the law clearly in mind, what's left of it.” I laughed lightly again. “I mean, what's left of the
law,
not my mind. Sam?”

Finally he spoke. His voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You didn't arrest them. Nobody arrested them. You merely ran them through with bows and arrows, beat upon them, shot them, coerced and threatened them, set fire to the countryside—the flames were seen from the corner of Hollywood and Vine!—entered illegally, probably raped the housekeeper—”

“I did burn up four automobiles, now you remind me. But, Sam, everything's
swell
—”

“I assume, in addition to the rest, you're dripping big gobs of blood onto Mr. Violet's expensive carpet.”

“Blood? No, no, Sam. I didn't get a scratch.”

There was a pause. Then he said faintly, “There ain't no justice any more. No, there just ain't no justice.” Another pause. “Did you chance upon any physical evidence out there?
Physical
evidence? Anything that won't instantly be tossed out of court?”

“Tons of it, Sam. There's so much I wouldn't be surprised if it falls under seventeen different sections of the penal code. But on the case of immediate interest, the murder of George Halstead and the blackmail operation, not only is there now proof it was worked almost exactly as I described it to you earlier, but the album is here. The photos of the Sporks, Halsteads, Bersudians, and so on—the blackmail album.”

“Well …” He paused. Then, grudgingly, “That should help a little.”

“There's more. And this part I personally found highly interesting. Not only was Jimmy tossing the album of our immediate interest into his concealed vault when I got here, but in the vault were two
other
albums. Not one, but three in all. Three of them, identical in conception and execution.”

“Oh?” It had a somewhat different sound this time.

“Yep. In one of them there were fourteen photos depicting twenty-eight different individuals, none of whom I recognized. But the third one might be primarily a political group. It's a smaller album, only six photos, twelve people, but two of them had faces familiar to me. And you. One is a member of the California Legislature. And one, by golly, is a Superior Court judge.”

He whistled. No words, just a soft whistle. But I found its note encouraging.

“Jimmy has told me,” I went on, “that these two albums, also, were supplied to him by Kermit Vanda and his wife—they've been married, by the way, something like four years—in return for a staggeringly substantial payment of Jimmy's cash. The blackmail con with sexy frosting has been going on for two years and a bit now. We just happened to get into this one when the first pitch in the operation was tossed.” I paused. “No wonder Stub clobbered Halstead last night. These creeps had a big operation to protect. If we can believe Jimmy, they've already hauled in over half a million bucks. And I think we can believe Jimmy.”

Sam asked me what else I'd found in the safe, or elsewhere on the premises, and I covered some of it briefly. Then I turned again to the Halstead case and said, “Vanda and Dilly were building up one group while getting ready to drop out of another, which helps explain all their addresses. It's eight to five they've right now got another con going we don't know about—maybe based at the Hidden Valley Lodge, for all I know. Plenty money and bigshots there.” I paused. “Sam, about those two, have you any lead to where they might be?”

“Not yet. We've got a local and an APB out and word to every informant available. Something should come in soon.”

“I hope so. That babe still has my gun. If she didn't throw it away. Or melt it.”

“By the way,” he said sweetly. “What did you use to shoot all those citizens with?”

“What?”

“Didn't you say one of your victims has a couple … what was it? Little rockets in him?”

“What? Speak up, man. Don't mumble—”

“DIDN'T YOU SAY LITTLE ROCKETS—”

“
Sam,
ouch, hey, oh, my ear. Well … rockets?”

He knew. Of course he knew. He'd known for a long time. He just hadn't known I was launching the little rockets. At least, he hadn't been
sure
.

So, finally—with the phone on my other ear—I said, “I did borrow that zippy little pistol. I did, all right. Yes, I did. It's a great little weapon, Sam, the only way to let fly, a regular Fun-Jet. I have, you might say, field-tested it, and can certainly recommend that it be adopted without delay—”

“You've gone too far,” he said quietly. Not venomously, not angrily. Sort of sadly, I thought. “Too far,” he murmured again.

I didn't say anything. I had a hunch I'd said enough.

After a pause Sam went on, “I have already sent a car to Mr. Violet's for you, Shell. In the car is Bill Rawlins and his partner. You wouldn't shoot an old friend like Bill Rawlins, would you?”

I thought of Bill sitting on his behind in the Homicide squad room, pounding the floor with his hands. And holding my wrist in a viselike grip. “Well, I'm not sure,” I said.

“They have been instructed to bring you in. Please offer no resistance, and come along quietly.”

“Why, of course. I'm a peace-loving man. Besides, I've got no resistance left in me. Hell, you didn't have to send a car out for me.”

“I thought it best. Sheldon, don't you realize, don't you
realize,
that we, the police, were preparing to visit Jimmy Violet?
Later
tonight? Armed with legal documents and proper authority, based on evidence we have developed, and even that movie film of yours … are you listening, Sheldon?”

I listened a moment. “I hear sirens now,” I said.

“Probably the fire engines. But Lieutenant Rawlins will not be far behind. Wait there for him.”

“Yes, sir. I don't think we'll need the fire engines. Fire's practically all over now.”

“The fire,” he said gently, “has only begun.”

Then he hung up.

I wonder what he meant by that? I thought.

What he meant was, he was going to clap me in jail.

That's the impression I got from Rawlins and his partner, a young sergeant, when they arrived. At least, Bill placed me under arrest.

The formality was taken care of after they—followed by at least half a dozen other police cars—arrived at Jimmy Violet's home and surveyed the carnage. And after the police work, photos, gathering and disposition of evidence—and hoods—was consummated.

Bill told me, smiling, that I was under arrest, then took out his little card and read, “Mr. Scott, I must advise you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law—” and on through the whole bit.

When he finished I said, “You've got to be kidding.”

He smiled.

“O.K.,” I said, snarling for his amusement, “so I take a fall. But I'll beat this phoney rap, you dirty rat Hell, I'll confess quick before you can get to an attorney, you dirty—”

I stopped, and smiled. Then, not snarling, I said, “Bill, I've
already
beaten it. I'm home free. You can't do a thing to me, not a
thing
.”

“Huh?”

“It's beautiful. I've already confessed! Not to a mere lieutenant, either, but to the Captain of Homicide himself. The brute. And he led me on, entrapped me, illegally coerced me. He didn't tell me a single
one
of my rights—in fact, all he told me about was my wrongs. He's clearly unconstitutional. So, take these cuffs off and I'll go.”

I went. But with Bill and the sergeant.

His partner drove the car, and Rawlins sat in back with me. He'd taken the handcuffs off—actually, that had been his own warped idea of jolly fun. He had a very warped sense of humor. As I already knew. But he wsn't all bad, not by a long shot. Because when we were on Sunset, heading toward the Hollywood Freeway, he imparted to me a cheering bit of news.

He had phoned Samson two or three times from Jimmy Violet's house, and the last time, Bill said, was less than a minute after Sam had received certain information. Information on a matter which turned out to be the last major development in the case.

One of the informants had turned the trick. Kermit Vanda and Mrs. Vanda had been located.

Rawlins went on, “I asked Sam if we could take them into custody on the way in. It's a small motel farther down Sunset, past the Freeway.” He paused, looking at me. “We've got enough to hold them on now. You want to come along when we pick them up?”

“Do I? I hope to shout I want to.”

“As an observer. Nothing more. You are under arrest, you know.”

“Yeah. I'll be good. But I'd hate to miss it, Bill. That babe may still have my gun. If she does, I want it back.”

“O.K. But be on your best behavior.”

“It's all I've got left.”

The motel was a small one on Sunset, set back from the street. Not plush, a far cry from the expensive home, the Beverly Hills Hotel, the Norvue—or the Hidden Valley Lodge. How the mighty have fallen, I thought. And these two were going to take a big fall very soon.

I should have felt more exhilarated about it, I suppose. Maybe I was just tired from all the activity during the day. Especially that long-distance run, after I'd seen Dilly for the last time. Disappearing around a curve in the path. Maybe that was it.

The last major development was almost a mess.

When we walked into the motel's small lobby a man was getting cigarettes from a machine against the right wall, and the man was Kermit Vanda.

But when he saw us he merely got rigid for a moment, a second or so, then relaxed and stepped toward us, smiling.

“Anybody got a match?” he said agreeably. “I seem to have left my lighter in the room.”

Rawlins put the cuffs on him, anyway. And left them on.

Room 22.

That's where Mrs. Vanda, or Dilly Pickle, born Dale Jill Piquelle, and possessor of probably a dozen aliases besides Marcelle Whist and Burma O'Hare, was now preparing for a good night's sleep. Which she was not going to get.

The sergeant was in the car with Vanda. Rawlins and I walked to Room 22. He had Vanda's key, but the door wasn't locked.

At the last moment, I said softly, “Bill, I'm on my best behavior. But you must have—despite the chuckles—an idea of what this conscienceless tomato did to me. Aside from helping to ruin my life, I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“I'd sort of like to be the one who lets her know. Besides, I want to get my Colt Special back from the fiend, if possible. I guess, too, I just want to be the one to let her know that, even though she played me for a mark, I'm the last man she'll con for a while. And, I suppose, that although maybe she conned me once she could never do it again. Something like that, anyway.”

“She stuck you pretty deep, didn't she?”

“I bled, friend. But I have stopped bleeding. And I'm just mean enough to want this babe to know that.”

He nodded, amused. “O.K., go on in. I'll be right behind you.”